A Fairly FarFetched Friendship
by abby-normal 2448
Summary: Honestly, Simza did not get enough screen time, nor was her relationship with the other characters explained very well. Holmes does makeup, dances are had, analysis abounds. Memories/emotions are stirred. Sorry for cheesiness...
1. Beginnings

**I left the moviehouse satisfied plot-wise, but craving more Simza. I think she and Holmes share some characteristics, and while this may not be the basis for a relationship (a romantic one), it would be a great friendship...criticize away please (especially dialogue, I'm trying to improve that) [:**

The dress was uncomfortable, her hair too tightly wound. Facial pores screamed for air under the layers of makeup and perfume. Standing next to Watson, it occurred to her this room, this event, this situation, was the furthest she could ever be from the freedom of her spirit, her nature, her people. It was all disconcerting, but as usual her features betrayed nothing of the turmoil within this puppet of herself.

Holmes finally appeared. His customarily unruly mane was combed back, his face patched up with makeup, his suit fit perfectly. This was almost a completely different man from the one she held in her lap in the boxcar, the one who fought to live after torture and extreme physical exertion. She sensed his persona fighting alongside hers in the confines of the peace conference, suppressing its true nature. At least she wasn't the only one. Watson, on the other hand, actually allowed himself to enjoy the evening. He was practically an ambassador or nobleman, acknowledging the gentry and bowing when necessary, although discreetly. His clockwork attitude aided him in the field and the ballroom, which was why, she surmised, he was such a valuable asset to Holmes. His uprightness was attractive in the way one normally feels attracted to sturdiness and strength, yet it was also suffocating; she had long ago dismissed any thoughts of feeling anything more than friendship towards him…besides, he was already taken. Holmes was a different, more difficult story to unravel. She did not particularly know, nor want to know, her feelings towards him. He was a puzzle. His arrogance and intellect were to be expected from someone of his genius, but it was the bravery and loyalty she found puzzling.

He asked her to dance; well, not so much asked as commanded. She trudged to the dance floor, her elevated heels heightening the difficulty to get her bearings. She was terrified. Not only had she never danced formally before, she was sure this deficit alone would blow their cover and ruin the operation. She tried explaining this to Holmes, but he merely smiled as if comforting a petulant child and instructed her to follow him. They started and it was odd to follow instead of lead, especially to follow this man who could barely ride a horse. She yearned for the erratic, high-spirited music of midnight campfires and drunken stomping, but alas she was trapped with a string orchestra, not a drum in sight. Then again, while this music was not rousing, it was easy to move to and she found it best to only move through the motions and let Holmes take care of everything else. There was also more quiet time to study and converse with her partner.

He was nervous, tortured, frustrated, searching to no avail. It was a wonder he could still dance.

"What do you see?"

* * *

><p>He rapped on the door of the little room in the hotel. He had to make sure everyone looked worthy of attending the peace conference; Watson looked dapper as usual, and he did not even bother checking on Mycroft. It was the gypsies he worried about. When he first stepped into the room of the gypsy man, everything was a mess. The cummerbund was too loose, the bow tie askew, the hair too….big. Holmes managed to make him look presentable in around ten minutes before heading to Simza's room. He was unphased by the fact that she was a woman; he had helped enough women dress and undress to know how female attire and anatomy worked.<p>

He noted a shadow from the bottom of the door. She was rightfully cautious.

"It's Holmes." The click of the lock commanded his entrance.

Stepping into the room, he noticed clothes strewn everywhere. Vests, scarves, blouses, skirts, a hat…if his memory served him correctly (which it did), he believed Sim had worn all these articles of clothing to breakfast that morning. He marveled at her ability to move so nimbly with all those layers on, when it would surely have dragged down any other Englishwoman. Dragging his eyes away from the deeply colored clothing, he found Sim sitting quietly at the vanity. She wore a red dress that exposed her neck (wrapped in a red necklace), collarbones, shoulder-line; it was so different from her normal casual attire, and he could tell she was uncomfortable in the stiff material. Her hair was up and held back with a floury headband, very pretty indeed. It looked a bit tight, but he was not about to undo the work of his brother's maid and try to redo it in a sloppier fashion. The face was set in a frown.

"Well, what's wrong with you?"

"I cannot apply this makeup correctly. I just look like a mess when I try, and I presume that is not the desired effect." She smiled sarcastically, clearly annoyed.

"Well, seeing as I have applied makeup to myself before, I think I am competent enough to put it on you." He walked over to the vanity where the sorry remains of a makeup kit were strewn about. "I see you won the battle against your kit…I thought you put this stuff on regularly."

"Yes, well…" He saw the eyeliner, noticed the dulled tip, the smudges on the desk, the towels stained with lipstick, blush, and black streaks. She had been crying.

"We _will_ find your brother. You do not need to worry yourself with that. Now sit still while I start."

She closed her eyes. "You should become a palm reader. You always know what people want to hear."

He began with the face powder, outlining her high cheekbones and prominent jaw-line. The film of powder rested gently on the skin, muting the fiery glare of her face. Next came the blush. He thought this was unnecessary altogether, as her cheeks were already naturally colored, but still he swiped a dash on each cheek. Sim's breathing slowed as she relaxed, completely comfortable with this procedure. He was surprised by her trust in him, considering the short length of time they had known each other. It was odd that this vagabond, who should be most wary of anyone bonded to society, trusted his dodgy, unpredictable person. Considering this revelation, he found he trusted her as well, which was not something taken lightly. He barely trusted Watson with delivering telegrams for goodness' sake…

The eyeliner was trickier to handle. Not only was the tip already dulled, Sim's eyes were still a little puffy from the crying. That was probably the worst job he did, but it was better than her previous efforts. Eye-shadow added a layer of secrecy to already dark eyes. He almost wanted to ask her to open them, so that he may sooner see the effect of the shadow. Lipstick was last. He put his left hand beneath her chin to elevate her head a few degrees to provide a better angle. Her thin lips, in their natural state, frowned at him. He swept the lipstick atop them and immediately grimaced at the effect it had. It was too rich, too thick, too oppressive. He wiped it off with his thumb and selected a lighter color. This did not match either. He wiped it off again. He tried a third color. Perfect. He sat back and observed his work for a second. She really was quite attractive.

"You can open your eyes." It was similar to watching a sunrise, with all the fire and passion caught up in one competent, confident, stare.

"Alright then, be ready to leave in ten minutes!" He hurriedly left the room, marveling at how Sim could stand sleeping in a room so hot and stuffy.

* * *

><p>"I see everything…that is my curse." Sim tried to imagine taking in every detail, every miniscule bit of information, no matter how relevant. She would go mad. Her sympathy did not extend to her face, however. She gripped his hand a tad tighter. The added pressure distracted him for a second, enough time for her to catch a glance of thanks in his eyes. They searched onward.<p>

His head whipped around consistently as they spun, as if he were a ballerina keeping balance. It was dizzying and uncomfortable, but she knew he would eventually lead her to safety. Their dance ended without so much as a "thank you" as he took Watson up in his arms. Now it was her turn to have a bit of fun. It was almost as hilarious as watching a drunken Watson dancing around the campfire.

"It's nice to see you smile, girl." Holmes' brother looked down at her.

She nodded to the odd couple traversing the dance floor. "They really are close."

"Yes, almost as close as Holmes and me. But I foresee a strain on their relationship when Watson marries. Perhaps then will be the time for brothers to celebrate the benefits of bachelorhood together, hmm?" He grinned, a schoolboy indulging in the telling of a juicy secret. Sim did not know how to respond, hoping her silence would signal him to continue. "Anyways, what do you see in your future Miss Simza? I know Holmes read your cards prior to this point, but I don't think he is entirely capable of reading cards as much as he is at showing off. So tell me, what do you think will become of tonight?"

"Holmes will end this madness, because he is entirely capable. And my brother and I will return home, start over, get by, and live our lives how we want." She meant it.

"That is deliciously simple, Miss Simza! How I love the Romantic way of thinking…so charming. I think my dear Sherlock could have a thing or two to learn from you, regarding simplicity." He nodded her way before walking off to chat with the Swiss ambassador. Sim could not decide if she should be offended or amused by the other Holmes' assumptions of her life, deciding on the latter.

The dance ended and Moriarty was spotted. The evening's events followed. Her brother died in her arms. Sherlock died in the falls. It was all over.

* * *

><p>It is odd what one thinks about when he has an abundance of time to only think. Falling like a stone through the air was actually enjoyable after a few seconds of getting over the flip-flopping in his stomach. His thoughts went first to his brother, then Watson, then Irene. He spent maybe ten seconds on his brother and Watson, but a good twenty on Irene. Was she scared when she fell, in the second it took her to hit the ground? Did she think of him? He would never know, so he would have to make up for her time and think and remember enough for them both. It was ten seconds before he hit the water, after the memories of his boyhood, that he thought of the gypsy camp. It was a actually a very nice place, if the dirtiness and disorganization were put out of mind…come to think of it, he was a rather dirty and disorganized person too, so he shouldn't discount those details…<p>

Sim came to mind. He wondered what their friendship, if it extended so far, would be like if he survived the night. He also wondered if she would attend his funeral. It was all up to chance really, and he sensed she understood that. In fact, she understood many things about him, just as he understood much more about her. While she was almost too predictable at times, she had some surprises stowed up her those mismatched sleeves. It was nice to be surprised once in a while. And then he was reminded once again of Irene, and she was in his closing thoughts as he plunged into the water.

* * *

><p>The funeral was too solemn; if it were Romani, they would be outside when night had fallen. A bonfire would crackle as it ate away all of Holmes' worldly possessions, purging the bonds of his earthly body, freeing his spirit. There would be dancing and singing. There would not be the tears and quiet mourning and the dark confines of a church. She knew Holmes would have wanted to break out of this place as much as she did. The sadness was too much. Watson seemed to understand this as well.<p>

After the service, Sim stayed behind to say a few of her own prayers at the church's altar. She began to chant, murmur, hum, sing-whatever the English wanted to call it. She spoke her soul.

* * *

><p><em>Two months later<em>

He strode into camp, ignoring the stares and wary glances thrown his way. It was exactly the same…well there were actually four more goats, if he wanted to get technical. He reached her tent and stepped right in. A grey hat sat on her stool, and there was nothing much else to see.

"What do you see?" He smiled and looked to the corner.

"Well, I see a surprised, maybe frightened, definitely angry woman I've wanted to visit since my rebirth."

"When was this rebirth?"

"Oh, I'd say maybe one month and three weeks ago."

"Alright then. I have some stew. You talk while we eat. I'm sure you can't wait to have the best hedgehog stew in your new life."

**The End?**


	2. Open Wounds

**Thanks to those who reviewed! I didn't intend to continue originally, but now I'm a bit excited by the prospect of continuing. Feedback is great, and corrections are encouraged as I have not read any books on Sherlock Holmes...thanks :)**

"…and with the yodeler's help I was able to make my way to France then back to my dear Watson in England. It would have been much easier if I hadn't sustained any injuries during the fall, but a gash in the shoulder is bound to open up again sometime or other." Holmes smiled to mask the grimace that was sure to pop up. He failed to mention holding hands with Death most of the journey, the fever, and the near-hypothermia. Had his hearing not been extraordinary, he would never have heard that wretched, yet blessed, yodeler.

His smile wavered a bit under her impassive stare. It was interesting how she rarely displayed her thoughts; it was only when emotionally provoked out of anger, fear, or grief that of feeling was evident. Then again, he hadn't exactly seen her in a joyous environment…..save when she danced around the bonfire with Watson. She sat atop her stool in the same position as when he and Watson first visited her tent; she rested on one leg while the other hung off the stool, her elbow resting on the bent knee, body a structure of observation ready to pounce. Queen of her domain. A heated glare interrupted his musings.

She spat out, "You know this camp is almost on top of the English Channel. I could have helped you. At least you could have let me know you were alive."

Had she and Watson communicated this conversation while he was gone, fancying the best way to berate him if he was alive? They scolded the same message: "Why didn't you contact me? I would gladly have rescued your wretchedness!" The only difference was Sim rarely used exclamation points.

He decided to start logically, as usual. "Well you see, the element of surprise is-"

"You want a surprise? Here's one: Many, many people showed up to your funeral, to pay their respects. Not one eye was dry. It was terrible." The hard look shot in her message; were it an actual arrow, Holmes was pretty sure any soldier would gape at it, wide-eyed until it punctured their useless bodies.

"Ah." Yes. His funeral. He supposed the emotional impact on those close to him would have been relatively large…oh bugger. Feelings could largely impede his logical argument, reducing its effectiveness (especially in the presence of an emotional woman) by 80%. Of course, if Sim was level-headed enough, he may still salvage scraps of a reasonable explanation for his shortcomings.

"You know, in the short time I've known you, Watson and I already lost you twice." Fantastic. Effectiveness of his argument now? 0%.

"Twice? I don't recall." But he did. The first was in the boxcar.

* * *

><p>Damages were extensive. The sluggishness was a result of the torture, as was the nausea. Torn muscle, ripped tissue, and fractured bone merrily destroyed his nerves as he tried to process the varying levels of pain travelling throughout his batterment. Every movement triggered a new injury for analysis of its effects on the big picture, thus concluding upon its importance and how much attention he hoped Watson would pay it. All this thinking and calculations were to distract him from the agony, but it did little. Maybe if he aggravated everyone around him enough they would knock him out, sparing him from further torture…he finally jumped into the chasm of blackness.<p>

He surfaced from the pool of unconsciousness temporarily to the sound of…chanting? But it was not a chant, as every verse -if he could call them that- had different words. It was a constant stream of sound meandering through his ear canals to someplace deeper within. It penetrated his blockade of pain but did not soothe the ache; it provided an orchestration, a symphony, to the hurt. It was a different kind of comfort that embraced him, not that of a blanket, but of a window allowing him to acknowledge his suffering. This understanding of his agony through the mediatory "chant" liberated something…his spirit…his soul…he could not begin to describe the weight thrown off his chest. All the while, a light pressure on his temples imprinted the murmurs in his memory. He wanted to open his eyes but feared it would destroy his illusion of freedom and duality with pain.

He inhaled deeply. Gunsmoke, pine, a hint of truffle, and lilac bloated his lungs. He realized he lay on his back, head elevated on something warm, probably the source of the lilac. He deduced it was Simza, as there was no bulge where he expected to find one were it a man who cradled him. This knowledge in itself was a comfort. And once again his mind succumbed to darkness, smells and sounds drowning his senses in the still waters of a trance.

* * *

><p>Simza did not know what to make of the visitor before her. He sat calmly, dutifully, watching her every move. She was confident he did not intend for his observations to be uncomfortable, just a force of habit. It was hard to believe his story due to lack of details regarding hardship, which implied there had been much hardship. Halfway through his tale she realized how he skipped around talking of his shoulder, and intended to ask him questions regarding its healing. She reckoned a few herbs and spells here and there could help it more than any English doctors' prescriptions. But when Holmes finished his tale, no questions were asked. His eyes and the tenderness with which he regarded his right side told her enough. Of course he had not come all the way to France to tell a good story.<p>

But part of her did not want him to heal. He had doubled her grief that winter. Not only had she lost her brother, but a friend. If Holmes had not gone to confront Moriarty at once, maybe something else could have been done to help her brother, or they could have all defeated the mad Professor together and spared Holmes' life. All possibilities hammered her head the night after the incidents, adding weight to the overwhelming sense of loss. And then there was the fact that Holmes did not feel the need to stop by on his trek back to England, when he knew full well she would have done everything she could to help him. The very idea that it was all a "surprise," as if it were all a game to him, was infuriating. To top it all, there was his arrogance towards death, as if he could evade it for as long as he wanted. She knew it was absurd to judge him at this point, but he made it so easy.

She decided to forgive him, offering up a small smirk of regard to his story. It was subtle, but she could see the signs of relief creep in the sag of his shoulders, the easy posture of the back, and the uncrossed legs. Holmes was not the only one with the gift of observation. A comfortable silence filled the space between them for a few moments before she said, "Let me work on your shoulder."

He sucked in air though gritted teeth. This apprehension from the man who threw himself off a cliff. "Have you got anything more intoxicating than stew?"

"Whiskey." She rummaged through a chest on the opposite side of the tent, pulling out bottles whose contents were alien to the untrained individual. As one hand groped for more bottles to clutch to her bosom, the other grabbed at a bottle of whiskey on a crate next to the chest. Needless to say, she returned to Holmes with arms full.

"Hmmmm. Carraway, nutmeg, mandrake root, juniper, mullein, and….cinnamon? All herbs of healing, with side effects including protection from various evils. You do know how to choose your herbs. And I'm assuming the whiskey is mine."

"You forgot a sprig of rue. And no, the whiskey is for me." They bantered while she mixed ingredients and he stripped the clothing from his upper torso. Upon completion, the concoction she produced was a dull brown paste. "Hold still while I…..Holmes? Did Watson look at your wound before you left?" The wound was messily dressed, fresh blood stained the cloth, and the skin provided an inflamed contrast to the white covering.

"No." Deadpan answer. No explanation given. No further questions asked.

She peeled away the dressing, tried not to aggravate the wound any further, failed to stop blood flow through torn stitches. Red streaks raced down his side as she patted paste on his wound. She did not understand why he did not seek more help from Watson before he left, unless they had fought, but that was not an excuse enough for him to neglect his health. Or maybe Watson did not know Holmes was in France. She ruminated on this idea.

"Watson doesn't know you're here, does he?"

"I'm sure he's figured it out by now."

"Why did you run away?"

"He was going to Brighton and he invited me along. Before they left I said I had to go to the loo, and came here instead. I promised Watson I would not interfere with his time with Mary after our last adventure." It made sense, but she was puzzled as to why he did not bring extra medical supplies to sustain him during the journey. Maybe it was just his way. Holmes winced as she added more paste. She realized then that their positions were reversed from that instance in the hotel room, when he had applied her makeup. Here he was entirely exposed to her work, while back there she had been most vulnerable. It was nice to think she could return the favor. Fingers danced lightly over the wound, brushing at damaged skin. She refused to let them betray her nervousness.

Upon redressing the wound she commenced murmuring a slew of healing words. She sat back as she whispered to admire her work, but found herself observing Holmes as a whole instead. He was relaxed, eyes closed, head tilted slightly back. His pale skin was drawn taut across overworked, battered muscle, bruises marking the trophies of battle. A sheen of sweat shone on his brow, his nose crooked its way down his face, dark eyebrows brought out the bags under his eyes. He was tired and beaten, but still so strong. Powerful shoulders and arms hung limp at his sides, of no use at the moment. She was mystified by this man's ability to take out thugs, trained Cossack assassins, and German soldiers with such confidence and grace. Holmes' story was unraveling before her, and she was glad to have taken a small role in his epic.

Holmes opened his eyes and it was similar to watching a sunset, with all the finality and knowledge of the past caught up in one steady, triumphant stare.

"What are you saying when you chant like that?"

"Songs of my childhood, spells passed down from generations of people, well wishes and whatnot."

"Interesting." They sat in silence.

Eventually conversation picked up again as the night wore on, and Simza invited Holmes to dance. He declined, using his wound as an excuse. She insisted on and persisted with her cause. He accepted.

**Reviews=sustenance**


	3. Close Proximity

**Alright. I'm struggling trying to keep the characters in character. We'll see what happens, but I'm beginning to doubt my ability to keep the story believable. Suggestions are always welcome...**

The dancing figures mirrored the shimmering, pulsing flames of the bonfire. Holmes was not sure how this illusion was so achieved, as every millisecond ordered a new position, a new contortion, a new beat; it was next to impossible to catch the details of an individual, only to see the mix of bodies and fire and earth. It was unsettling in a sense to lose oneself in this frenzied mass, but the relief of letting go was certainly alluring. At least he had resisted the whiskey up to this point. Well, more like Simza had taken most of the spirits for herself.

Sim pulled him by the hand outside the tent, towards the awaiting madness. She had more commanded than asked him to dance, assuring she would lead him. He surmised this was the part he had to play, the visitor to be initiated, as Watson was not there to do this for him. He might as well try to make a time of it…if he could discern the metered-time of the music played so rambunctiously by the attending musicians…if he could even call them that. They were more demons, channels for the entropy of Hell's functions. The pounding drums, erratic fiddle, and flighty clarinet found their way into his veins, pumping energy where blood should have been. All thoughts of his wound gone, his limbs acted according to their own agenda. It was beyond his control; the infectiously electric atmosphere could have subdued a stony gargoyle.

The world was a combination of rich reds, luminous oranges, midnight blues, and brilliant blacks swirling in dashes all around. He was in an impressionist painting where the moments were many to create a picture of constant movement. Sim leapt into his circle of space, stomping, dancing, twirling with his own sporadic movements. Close-up, his analytical traits sprung up from beneath the newly created layer of euphoria. He noted the sweaty hair plastered to flushed cheeks, racing streaks across a smooth beach of skin. Eyes held his gaze, then averted to another dancer, then wandered the surroundings, then exalted the night sky. Bangles on her arms glittered, reflecting the stars, the inferno, the rampant emotions so magnified in the environment. This was not the subdued huntress scavenging for clues; she was Artemis, she was Calypso, she was an Amazon, she was…joy.

With this realization came a multitude of understandings bombarding the temporarily broken-down barriers of his mind. None of these thoughts were wanted, especially after his previous, and still so close, loss. His mood dampened.

Sim laughed, "More dancing, less thinking Holmes!"

"Emm, I need to use the john." He walked briskly to the outskirts of the gypsy camp. He heard exhilarated whoops, a wailing clarinet, a frenzied new tune, pounding drums, the crackling bonfire; the universe responded with cooling winds, calls of night-creatures, a cloudless sky. It was all so wild, so free, so enviable. Too much. He plodded away.

* * *

><p>It was always fun to introduce outsiders to her world, to make them experience the exhilaration of freedom, especially when the outsider was a friend. Holmes was certainly just as ridiculous when dancing as Watson, if not more so. At times it looked like he was incontrollable, but then there were instances when he caught her eye and she knew he was entirely sober, enjoying himself. She twirled her way towards him, feeding on his abounding energy. This was the most addicting part of the dance, feeling energies mix and compound to synthesize an umbrella of vitality. He was inches from her, clapping, spinning, hopping; his every breath was shared with hers. Simza tried to remember the last time she and Holmes had been in such close proximity to each other. One instance came to mind automatically.<p>

* * *

><p>She could not remember the last time she had eaten custard-filled pastry. Sitting at the quaint little café table, Simza felt she did not belong, but Watson's presence overshadowed her doubt. He ordered more food, checking his pocket watch, fiddling with the tablecloth, obviously agitated by the absence of Holmes. To be honest, Watson's impatience worried her more than Holmes' absence.<p>

"Dash it! I knew he would get caught eventually. I'll give him five more minutes before I barge up to Moriarty's room." He ground his teeth. Silence, save for her munching, ensued. And then she felt an arm around her chair. She looked to her left and saw Holmes.

"Hello Watson, Simza. I have figured it all out." He grinned and leaned back, arm now up on her shoulders. Sim attempted to swallow the food in her mouth, but could not force herself to end the savory paradise her taste buds were experiencing. Holmes delineated his plans and observations to Watson throughout the rest of lunch. At the finish, Watson excused himself to see to pressing matters. They all knew he was off to send a telegram to Mary, in case the next leg of their mission was to go awry.

"Goodness, Sim, you eat like we've starved you."

"I don't think you realize, but there are no real ovens or baking ingredients back at camp, and desserts are expensive. I have not had fresh pastries in years."

"I would think it would be simple for you to finch whatever you want." Sim rolled her eyes at the stereotype. She thought Holmes of all people would have known better. As she prepared to scold him, she noticed the sudden hardness of his features. He looked off into the distance, quickly turned to her, smiled tightly through gritted teeth.

"There is a certain experienced former military gunman walking our way. I'm sure you know of whom I speak. Hide my face and lean in close." She automatically leaned forward, covering most of Holmes' figure with her own, her hair and hat shielding his head. He continued, "Good, speedily done. Now stay until I see him go."

"But how do you know when-"

"The reflection in the café windows." It really was uncomfortable, half standing, trying not to fall onto Holmes. He sensed her discomfort. She wanted to smack the childish grin off his face as they thought the same thoughts. But then he tensed again, and she saw the reflection of the gunman approach their table. She imagined she could feel Holmes' heartbeat quicken with hers as the impending dread welled within. She heard the footsteps grow steadily louder, compacter, more dangerous. She locked eyes with Holmes, who stared forcibly back. They were so close; his every exhale was her next inhale. She hoped the pastries hadn't soured her breath too much.

Holmes whispered, "If he talks to us, I want you to duck and get out of the way as fast as you can." Sim nodded.

The gunman was feet away, and then-

"Good day, sir. The gentleman at yonder telegraph office wanted me to inform you, you have a telegraph." The waiter, or saint in this case, paid no attention to Sim and Holmes. The gunman nodded and loped off to the building. Sim breathed a sigh of relief, noticed how her breath altered the course of the sweat running down Holmes' brow. Only then did she realize how scandalous their position was. She leapt back immediately, sitting back in the seat beside him. He sipped his tea as if nothing had happened. Watson showed up seconds later, out of breath, willing them out of their seats.

"I saw the sharpshooter as I stepped out of the office. We must go quickly, and Holmes, you owe me ten pounds for the bribe I gave the waiter to save your arse. And don't ever put a lady in such a humiliating position again while I'm here. Honestly, I don't know what you were thinking." During Watson's diatribe, Sim tried to keep herself from blushing too furiously. Thinking back on it, she was pretty sure she could have fought with her daggers as effectively as Holmes, easily subduing the gunman without too much of a scene. She would make sure her hired hands knew her abilities from then on, so as to prevent any more…situations.

* * *

><p>Holmes wandered the streets of France, eventually opting to sleep in a decrepit old inn by the waterside. This would suffice for the next few days before he returned to England, and Watson, and order.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Four months later<em>

Holmes sat in the drawing room, shivering despite the blazing fire before him. He reached for another biscuit at his side, contemplating the novel he had just put down. His fingers came back empty. He glanced to the table beside him, found the basket of biscuits completely empty. And then he caught the scent of lilac. He was struck with a slow satisfaction and apprehension all at once.

Mockingly obnoxious, he spoke to the "empty" room.

"My, I wonder where my biscuits have gone!"

Simza appeared out of the shadows. "I suppose someone finched them." She looked roguish as always, with even more layers of clothing and scarves to protect her from the harsh English winter.

"Pray tell who you think the culprit might be. Or better yet, tell me why the culprit is here." It had been so long, too. What could be the reason?

"Watson wrote to me, said you needed someone to talk to, that you were incessantly bored. I thought I'd come by, catch up with an old friend, and get some explanations for the desertion of a wild night." It was all so matter-of-fact. Of course this was Watson's doing.

"Well, sit down, and let's talk."

"Alright, as long as your bladder is already empty."

**Okay, opinions?**


	4. Unspoken Talks

**Alright, I'm out of the doldrums. Enjoy :)**

The living room was fashionably, cozily designed, the perfect destination for a hot cup of tea on a chilly winter night. Large windows caught moonbeams, providing the only alternate light source to the imprisoned flames of the fire. Plush, mahogany furniture was placed strategically around the mantle's warmth while paintings and tapestries hid the walls to keep the heat in. Every trinket, antique, armchair, and side table had a single purpose: make the room a safe haven from reality.

Simza navigated around the furniture, trying not to muddy the heavy Persian rug, tentatively taking off her hat in such a setting. She figured this was the more "civilized" take on the interior of her tent. The colors were the same, but the mood and décor suggested refinement. The embroidered cushions, tasteful curtains, and detailed wood carvings heightened the sense of societal formality. Sim sat on a squat seat to the edge of the ring of light cast by the fire; Holmes decided it best not to tell her she sat upon a footrest. Half her face was revealed by the heat of flame, the other half exposed by the cooling moon's rays, an effect that intensified her aura. Words were inconsequential at that time. Both participants in this silent conversation were astute enough to read so much more into body language.

Battle may have been Holmes' forte, but the art of conversation and implications rested in Sim's penetrating gaze. This was how she made her living; fortunes were read from Tarot cards, but the cards only provided a guide to the stories of the strangers who sat before her. It was all in their body language, how they reacted to that first, pivotal card. Once she saw the reactions she knew what to tell them, what would make them come back begging for more information. It was not difficult, this perception of others' needs. It only became difficult with Holmes, when he took the initiative and stole her cards away before she had a chance to truly see what he wanted, or needed.

* * *

><p>The Englishman walked in cockily, knowing exactly what he was doing, condescendingly taking in the cramped, furnished space. She knew he would be one of those tricky, skeptical customers…but she'd handled that type before. His attire suggested wealth, just like any of the other "gentlemen" in the club below, but the way he wore the clothing indicated someone who was not necessarily at ease with the world around him. His arrogant air gave a whisper as to why he could be an outsider. Lack of the smell of alcohol comforted her little, as she knew this customer would still be unpredictable. He did not even bother to sit. As she introduced herself, she felt him study her, but not in the covetous sense of the others. He was trying to find something as much as she. The little room was suddenly suffocating.<p>

His intelligence did not escape her. The way his eyes moved screamed he was aware of his surroundings, that he knew anything and everything. Telling his fortune should prove to be interesting.

As he read her cards she realized she had found her match in rhetoric, but while his rhetoric was the conventional, spoken form, hers was all in signs of the body. She communicated her disapproval of his barging-in through her posture, hands on hips, weight shifted to one leg, head cocked to the side. She also tried to make a show of apathy towards his all too accurate readings of her cards. And then he spoke of her brother. All observation ceased as emotion took over. How dare he assume he knew everything about her situation, her life, her family…and then to have the nerve to treat her like a child in her own domain? Even as the Cossack was revealed and Holmes fought to defend her and himself, Sim would not have minded if her dagger nicked Holmes as it passed into the Cossack's chest. Yet she ran with Holmes to escape the club.

The adrenaline that came with being the prey of a hunt was not unwelcome; it had been too long since she really _lived_ life the way it was supposed to be lived, on edge and in constant excitement. The exhilaration only soured when she realized her ineffectiveness in fighting the injured Cossack. Holmes came to the rescue, and she owed him twice over already. Sure they would never meet again, she fled from the embodiment of trouble, relieved to have an excuse to leave that horrid club, but regretting the decision not to interrogate the Englishman about her brother.

As she made her way to France that night, she pondered the sudden turn of events. It was terrifying and invigorating all at once, so full of twists and turns, so addicting. She was almost disappointed to escape the prospects of what looked to be a grand adventure.

* * *

><p>Flashing eyes asked why he left.<p>

He was still, hoped she did not sense his reluctance. But it was as clear as the moonlight falling through the windows; a shift in position, the movement of his Adam's apple, the stoic expression trying to hide inner turmoil, it was all she needed.

She relaxed, rested her chin in the cup of her hand, raised an eyebrow, and indicated her patience concerning his explanation, knowing she would eventually win this fight.

"I do believe talking requires use of the vocal chords." The statement, while meant to stimulate conversation, hung suspended in the air, the sorry attempt at Holmes trying to dominate. He had moved a pawn to her queen.

Her face remained unreadable as she stood and placed herself directly in front of him. She was an opaque shadow, demanding answers. It was he who was the transparent, spineless ninny at a loss for words he so dearly needed at the moment. Hands on hips demanded answers.

But then he remembered words unsaid to another, and he knew the task at hand had to be done. She saw determination engulf and do away with the cowardice. His mandibular muscles tense, telling her he was ready to talk without hindrance. Finally. She had won.

"It has become evident that-"

"Mr. Holmes?" An older lady of about fifty-five entered the room. "It is almost midnight, and I was told by Dr. Watson that you needed more rest, sir." Annoyance. The woman was dressed in a plain green dress, hair done up in the most efficient bun, no signs of weariness befell her character. Sim didn't know if she was more impressed or frustrated by the interruption.

"Mrs. Hudson. I do not need to have a bedtime dictated to me, nor do I need any more instruction from Watson regarding my health. And honestly, where did you learn your manners? Couldn't you hear me having a conversation?"

The abused's steely glare was not lost on any persons in the room. "I did not hear anything, Mr. Holmes. Hmph, you are one to talk of manners. Good evening." She stared pointedly at Simza before departing. "Oh, and when entertaining a guest, it is often best to have something on other than a bathrobe, sir." Sim could not help smirking at the old maid's familiarity and offhanded servitude, then remembered the conversation at hand. Holmes beat her to it.

"I think it would be best if we continued this conversation in the morning. There's a guest room upstairs, immediately to the right of the staircase. Good night." He stood. Sim refused to move out of his way. He was a few inches taller than her form, staring her down; it was all she could do not to push him back down into his seat. It was all he could do not to resume their sorry excuse for a conversation.

"Right then." He backed up, clambered over the armchair behind him, picked up the novel from the side table, and strode out of the room.

* * *

><p>Simza woke early to the ringing chimes of a clock on the wall of the bedroom. It was an airy, green, spring-feeling room….not suitable to the current season whatsoever. It was not yet light, but she knew it would be impossible to sleep again. Dragging herself out of bed, she slipped on multiple articles of clothing and crept downstairs. Seeing as no one else was awake, she opened the front door and left to take a walk.<p>

It had been a while since she'd traversed London's streets, and even longer since she'd been to the nicer sections of said streets. The streetlamps illuminated the walking paths quite nicely, but not enough to give away the whereabouts of patches of ice. Sim treaded carefully on the packed snow, all the while humming quietly to herself. It was nice to be out in the fresh, biting air without distractions or rules or decorum. She wondered if a forest or any other wild place was nearby for enjoyment.

Sim came upon a square that was to be the marketplace in a few hours, and she took the opportunity to sit on an upturned crate and drink in the happenings of the city. It all seemed so insignificant compared to the adventure with Watson and Holmes. She did not know how either of them could stand returning to society, where restrictions were abundant and excitement was scarce. She sensed Watson's reasons for staying were his work, his upbringing, and his love for Mary. Holmes, on the other hand, had only his commitment to Watson. But that was all changed since the marriage. Holmes had that spark of wildness that if cultivated could produce a genius with a free spirit. Why did he stay? While he used his gift to supposedly help others, she suspected it was more of a game, a challenge to keep himself occupied within the boundaries of society. Or maybe he genuinely liked helping people. If only he would talk, there so much to learn and understand. He was fascinating.

Street-vendors poured into the little courtyard, signaling her return to the house. She stood and retraced her steps to the front door. As she stepped inside, she noticed Holmes sitting in the same armchair by the fireside.

"Are we always to meet in this condition, Holmes? You sitting there, and me tramping in like a stray?"

"As I recall, you didn't necessarily tramp in last night, but appeared out of thin air. And I'll stand if that's what you want." He smiled and stood. "I see you went to the marketplace." How Holmes knew, she could not begin to imagine, merely accredited his knowledge to his gift.

"Holmes, you were going to say something before that other lady-"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"-yes, Mrs. Hudson, walked in."

"Let's take a walk, shall we?" He was already walking to the closet to retrieve his heavy coat.

"Stop stalling." She watched as he gathered warming accessories.

"Oh but it would be so much better to talk when the air is crisp and our heads are clear, don't you think?" He wrapped a scarf around his neck.

"Holmes, if you do not want to talk of serious matters, maybe we should save it for some other time. Let's just walk." It was amazing how he relaxed after that last statement. He flashed a genuine half-smile in her general direction before stalking to the front door and holding it open.

He mock-bowed as she walked past, proclaiming, "My lips are sealed."

**I promise this goes somewhere...**


	5. A Walk

**Thanks again to reviewers and those offering up help/suggestions! This latest installment may seem a bit dreary, but hey, it's an English winter...**

Sunlight filtered lazily through patches of cloud and was immediately lost in the dirty underworld of smog, hacking coughs, heavy mufflers, and horse breath. This was not an ideal place or time to enjoy air or the outside in general. He decided it would be best to get away from the up and active inner city to someplace better suited to their melodramatic silence. To Hyde Park it was.

Holmes thrust his hands in his pockets, tucked in his head, and remained inconspicuous to those around him. Extra caution never hurt anyone. Beside him, Simza walked with head held high, drawing judgmental glances from passersby regarding the odd pair walking the pavement. He did not know why Sim insisted on calling attention to herself…surely she realized the reputation her people had, even if the English were more tolerant than most. Her pride and the way she held herself were admirable, but he found it annoying that she did not try to use discretion at times. It offset his attempts to watch the world without notice. But he surmised this was how it normally felt when with someone else: uncomfortable. He was reminded why he seldom walked with a partner.

He caught Sim glancing up at him from beneath the rim of her hat, just as he was glancing down at her from above the collar of his coat. No head turning was actually accomplished, just quick peripheral notations of each others' standings. She took quick steps to his easy, long strides, her boots leaving light indents in the ground such as those of a bird. His own boots left tracks comparable to moose-prints, and he realized it was because of his hunched, heavy posture. It became clear why Sim walked with such "pride" now: She walked ever so lightly on her toes to leave as little trace of her actions as possible. Holmes felt guilty for assuming she did not practice prudence.

He took her through alleys, back-gardens, squares, all little shortcuts he'd accumulated and used throughout his time in London. They would arrived at one of the park entrances in fifteen minutes, cutting off approximately seven minutes of time had they gone the conventional way, but Sim insisted on dawdling about street vendors and beggars. He thought it amusing how she could laugh and speak so casually with these strangers when she knew they would never meet again, while she reserved a more subdued demeanor for those she was closer to. Perhaps the connection was in the shared feelings of vagrancy and, at times curbed, freedom. He was quite captivated by this happier version of the normally calculating persona.

The snow on the paths was no less dirty than that of the street, but at least there were trees. Entering the park took a load of pressure from his chest; the air was of the same quality as the streets, but the atmosphere was simpler and purer. Stark branches arched over paths drenched in white, welcoming visitors. They walked over a wooden bridge, and Holmes noticed an absence of air puffs from his side. Looking to the right confirmed his deduction. Sim held her breath over bridges. He first thought was that this was ridiculous as thoughts of boyish mischief filled his mind. But then he remembered the footprints, and felt guilty again for making condescending assumptions. When he had time to think, he could be a rather snotty version of himself. They crossed to the other side, deeper into the heart of the park, into the depths of their thoughts and feelings.

* * *

><p>Sim was completely comfortable with the situation at hand. While she felt the park was a bit too manicured, its tranquil milieu sufficed in opening her mind. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sharpness of her surroundings; she caught a trace of spearmint from her left, Holmes. She'd expected something muskier, but having given it some thought found the fresh aroma suited him better. Spearmint symbolized powers of the mind and healing…and love. She could place each trait to a point of Holmes' character: mental powers obviously indicated his analytical skills, healing was in helping others other than himself, and love would probably be for Watson. Not love in the marital sense, but in the brotherly sense…or maybe it was love for the bulldog…or for the woman Watson told her of in the telegram. He'd surmised that the loss of that woman was cause for some of Holmes' issues, but Sim refused to bring up the topic. Holmes would talk when he wanted to, and it was none of her business to bring up hurts too soon. Surely he understood such matters too, as not once since peace conference did he mention or ask of her brother's demise.<p>

Looking to her side, she noted the target of her thoughts trudging through the beautiful landscape. It almost annoyed her how he was so astute, yet looked so foolish trying to appear compact and apathetic. He had the right to walk upright and show off his brilliance, but he took no advantage of it. His romanipen was strongly evident, but he repressed it. He could be a vagabond, an adopted gypsy even, if only he fully embraced that wilder side of himself. She sensed he wanted to, but could not bring himself to transform into something so unfamiliar. He shed his physical appearance to become a china-man, a woman, a beggar, all so easily, but matters of the soul seemed never to be shed. She focused on the path ahead, wondering at the daily battle he must fight if her assumptions were correct.

The wind picked up, instigating a chill up her petite form. God, England was unforgiving with the cold. Holmes sensed this, offered his arm to her. She accepted, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. This was why he could never be Romani…civilization had trained him too well. Not that she was unappreciative of his chivalry.

So they walked, not a whisper to be caught in the wind.

The benches looked inviting enough. He brushed the snow off one and waited for Simza to sit before he settled down beside her. It was nice to know there was someone who took in the surroundings as he did, but he was sure they interpreted these observations differently. While he noted everything and concluded upon the essential and concrete, he supposed Simza took in the environment and used it to interpret the abstract. Holmes watched their heated breaths float up in the frigid air, wondering how she perceived them. He saw them as heated gaseous particles rising in accordance to the accepted governing laws of science, but when considering her perspective, they seemed more twisting, dancing wisps of the evidence of life. It was intriguing, this world through another's eyes.

The frozen lake before them reflected the trees on its banks and the smoky-hued canvas of sky. It was all a ponderous black, grey, blue melancholy. Then Simza stood, walked to the edge of the lake, leaned against one of the tree trunks, felt its bark through fingerless gloves. Her brown and orange added a layer of life and warmth. It was picturesque, in the Romantic way that was gaining popularity in those times. Holmes strode to her side, wanting to partake in her commune with whatever she communicated with. But he was not about to break the silence. He stood as sentinel.

"You must visit France more often." Her voice cut through the air and assaulted his unsuspecting ears. "This place is too bleak, however depressingly beautiful you may find it."

"I'm afraid I would only run away again and end up disappointing people." She looked down and smiled at the comment, then recomposed her solemn expression as she leveled with his gaze. Piercing eyes met their match.

"But at least your spirit could breathe, if only for a few moments in time." Holmes looked out over the water, sighed, and looked from beneath weary eyebrows back at her.

"Perhaps when adventure calls, my dear."

Exasperation. "You are a strange one, denying yourself as such."

"As are you." Raised eyebrows communicated slight playful disbelief and amusement. Ease replaced unsteady colloquialism. Sim faced Holmes fully, arms crossed.

"Are you prepared to tell me what you must say?" Of course she knew something was on his mind.

"Yes, well…emmm…" The words would not come. "…I would be delighted to visit France a few times a year. I've heard dancing is beneficial to the health."

"Must you make conversation so difficult?"

"I never took you for the speaking type either, Miss Simza." He was right of course.

'Sim. That's what my friends call me." He nodded and offered his arm to her again. She accepted and they walked away from the quiet scene.

The short interlude of actual conversation placed a blanket of warmth over the two; each others' company was enjoyed to a much greater extent. The park was really perfect for this kind of outing. And then the eventual tug ordered him to follow her. She pulled him off the designated paths into the deep snow, following the lake's shoreline. Now it felt like an actual trek through unfamiliar territory, even with the obvious guidelines a few meters off to the sides. It was much this way between the two, who had the guidelines of the world around them, but were at a loss when delving deeper, further into themselves. They would just have to improvise.

"My God, Sim. I do believe you are trying to freeze my toes off."

"It didn't seem a trouble in Germany. Oh, but as I recall, you were on pony-back most of the time." The tease did not go unnoticed.

"Yes, and every other time I was either running through a snowy or riding a train, as I recall."

"I thought you didn't remember most of the train ride."

"I remember the horrid nightmare involving that demonic pony-" A scoff followed. "-and an enchanting…song, was it? While I find it hard to believe in the otherworldly, your 'remedies' seem to work better than anything of Watson's."

"It's all in the mind, Holmes. Nature embraces what the body wants, needs, and the mind fills in the gaps left in-between. You're much stronger than you think. I'm merely a channel."

"You're more than that, I can assure you." He realized his forwardness, tensed, but was assured no discomfort was lasting when she lightheartedly rolled her eyes. A slight pressure to his arm murmured a good-natured thanks. No more was said.

Sim left the following morning, assuring Watson that Holmes did not need her assistance, but to come to terms with himself.

Watson sat down to his typewriter, determined to continue his patient-profiling of Holmes. His friend did not know the close eye kept on him, or at least that is what Watson assumed. For all he knew, Holmes could be manipulating Watson's observations according to his own agenda, making a mockery of Watson's efforts….but still he wrote.

_Over the past few months, Holmes has often gone on weekend excursions, presumably to France to wander the streets. His health and wounds heal quickly as ever, but I worry about his emotional state. His erratic antics fluctuate with each visit to that country across the English Channel; I assume he does more than wander the streets, winding up in a certain gypsy camp. Just yesterday I saw him applying an unfamiliar poultice to the scar on his shoulder, and he refused to answer my questions regarding its origin. I doubt he believes in magic, but there must be more to the camp rather than alternative medical advice. I hope Simza sets him straight. I can only guess the relationship between the two, but I think it stems out of mutual respect and an understanding of each other, no matter how different their characters. Thinking upon it, there are more similarities between the two than I first imagined. Perhaps this is all a benefit to Holmes. As summer approaches, I hope the warmer weather will bring a more forthcoming attitude from him, perhaps settle the uncertainties befalling his attitude. It's already been over a year since our last big adventure…_

**More soon...**_  
><em>


	6. Change?

**Tell me when I get cliche...I abhor stories that meander towards the predictable, even though I think I just did...Anyways, read and review :)**

Animals milled about, untended to while the boys who customarily kept track of them ran through the neighboring harbor and town. Girls braided daisies into each other's' hair and sang sprightly songs to compliment the whoops of the rambunctious opposite sex in yonder fields. Older men and women sat outside on little wooden stools, chatted, chortled gleefully at gossip regarding the younger ones. Tent flaps lay open to invite in the passing friend, neighbor, stranger, whoever needed assistance; the bright day was a delightful reprieve from the rainy morns of the previous week. Holmes strode through camp, nodding then and again to no one in particular, amused by the ubiquity of vitality.

When he'd staggered off the boat (landlubber legs were his bane), a smiling harbor welcomed him back; saturated blue skies reflected in the water, harbor-men whistled gaily, merchants shouted mock-playfully to one another, and children loped nonpurposefully through the playground that was the port. Where was he, bloody Italy? At least there was more life here than in the drawing room at Mycroft's. While he enjoyed mind games with his brother, sometimes it was more satisfying to escape to a world where all there was to analyze was beautiful. A few months ago, he would have laughed at that silly statement; why analyze beauty when facts were the basis of life? But now it was clear he was better suited to balance societal observations with objects of personal satisfaction. And so he walked the all- too-familiar path to that camp by the water, stopping by one of the merchant stalls to purchase a few sprigs of rue.

Upon reaching his destination he was surprised to find the entrance of her tent blocked by a heavy black sheet. She was obviously not happy. He stepped cautiously inside, prepared to duck anything flying towards his head; it had happened twice before, and he was not to be fooled a third time. Sim was not perched on her stool, not rummaging through the chest of herbs, not slumped in her hammock. Strange. An empty bottle of wine caught his eye, light lip-prints barely visible in the tent's artificial lighting. A mess of clothes were thrown in a heap off to his left, intermingled with papers, jewelry, and other items of possible memorabilia. Upon closer inspection, he noted these papers were full of doodles…well, sketches, as these were of greater artsmanship than half-thought pictures. He picked one up, recognized the sharp strokes of graphite, the crude dichromatic contrast, the thickness of the paper. This was one of Rene's drawings. Realization dawned on him. What terrible luck.

* * *

><p>Simza woke to chirping crickets, their melodies struggling to mimic the steady beats of a clock, sounding more like the palpitations of a broken heart. She tried to ward off the nausea that came with the grief, struggled out of her hammock, reached for something to support herself, drunk with emotion. She found a lamp, lit it. Tradition dictated she should never think of him again, never mention his name, keeping nothing of his, but she had already defied that last rule. His drawings composed some of the only papers she possessed besides her correspondence with Watson. It was easier to look at them now, by lamplight, when she could imagine he sat off to the side in the shadows working on his skill. It was easier until daylight came and all illusions vanished.<p>

She went through all her clothes, pulled out a black skirt, belt, blouse, vest; black encrusted jewelry, stockings, makeup. This had to be done, no matter how schismatic from prevalent customs. It was said she had to destroy all that was his, but upon reaching for his art her body refused to obey. It was pitiful, really. But the pain was still a bit much to handle. She left the tent, determined to build up willpower with the help of a clearheaded walk, the rising sun, and whispering grass.

A fast-fading moon illuminated in its dying beams a foggy dawn. She meandered a ways away from the camp, into a no man's land of tall grasses and shrubbery, and sank to her knees. Cool dew bathed her unwashed skin, grasses teased her uncombed hair, the rich scent of earth purified her lungs. It was tradition to remain unclean when grieving, but nature had other plans. She closed her eyes to reality, hands wrung on her lap, back straight, vocalized a countermelody of anguish to the uneven beats of the crickets.

* * *

><p>Holmes waded through weeds, pasture, sod, following the already bent and broken stalks of grass. She had gone a long way. At least there was a breeze to ward off excessive heat. He pushed up his shirt sleeves, loosened the cravat at his neck, rolled up his trousers, surged through the sea of mounting irritation. He should have expected it to happen sooner or later, it was an annual thing for God's sake. It was just his unfortunate timing to come the precise day when he was most unwelcome. He was very good at that.<p>

She was kneeling in the grass quite still, quite tranquil, quite…celestial. She absorbed all light in her dark clothing, a crude reminder of the woe settled over the silent form. He stepped lightly before her, squatted down, forearms rested on his knees, head tilted so he could look up into her face. Her cheeks were flushed, from heat or tears he could not tell, covered by eyelashes heavy with moisture. Black clothing clung to the stiff body, unkempt hair made her figure appear small in comparison, fine eyebrows pressed towards the midline of her face. She was a wild thing of emotion. Perhaps now wasn't the best time for him to-

"You should not be here unless you are in mourning." Her voice was hoarse. Silence. Holmes made a motion to leave, half stood, caught the scent of lilac, remembered the rue in his pockets. He made a difficult decision.

He sat cross-legged before her and took her hands in his, whispered, "But I am. I believe that is what friends are supposed to do, no? I mourn your loss and mine." She nodded slightly, eyes still determinedly shut. A light squeeze accepted his query of invitation, then his own eyes were held captive by darkness.

It was amazing how a connection of the upper extremities could bridge such a gap between two aching souls. Deep in his subconscious there flowed a river of memories shared with That Woman, the one who first ensnared him, who first broke him. It was terrible really, going back, ridding himself of that damned dam of feelings…but it helped to know he was not alone.

* * *

><p>The fire of despair consumed the kindling offered up by Holmes' presence; his aura of solemnity magnified a flame of feelings within. Her time was almost done, but she sensed his was just beginning, so she stayed. She felt every tremble, uncertainty, painful memory, relief of closure. Time was of no importance when concerning healing, and Sim was prepared to stay all day and into the night if necessary. She already felt the heat of the sun fading at her back.<p>

They sat.

Eventually he breathed out a shaky sigh, tugged at her hands. She opened her eyes first to a red sunset, and then to his gaunt face. The bond of understanding was electric as paws enveloped fingers. Tousled hair fell across a forehead creased in distress and exhaustion, beard shadow accentuated the hollows of his cheeks, dirt smeared loose-fitting clothing. He was truly raw, for now. She was almost afraid he would speak, breaking the delicate interaction between the two. But he was silent. Eventually it was she who tried to stand first, found her legs were weak from disuse, tried again with Holmes' aid. They uneasily got to their feet and took tentative steps back to camp, the steps of emotional rebirth.

* * *

><p>Sim took her place on the stool while Holmes lay on a cot on the floor. Lamplight tossed shadows of her past onto the tent's sloped walls.<p>

"How did you know?" She held the almost empty wine bottle in her outstretched arm, which rested lazily on her knee, and observed the liquid sloshing around the bottom.

"It was easy to figure out the cause of trouble when I saw Ren-"

"Do not speak his name…you found the drawings, then." She looked up from the bottle to where he lay.

"Yes, and from there I assumed you'd taken a walk to calm down. I followed your trail from there." He sat up suddenly, rummaged through his pockets. "I almost forgot. I brought a little gift…but I believe these can serve no more as decoration or herbs of healing in their current state…" He pulled out the rue.

Sim quoted a man from not too long ago. "You do know how to pick your herbs." A crinkle at the corners of her mouth. He walked over, placed the flowers in limp hands. Pale yellow was still discernable in the tanglement of crushed green, the color of friendship. Sim looked up from her perch, yearned to thank him for so many different reasons.

"It is alright to talk about him." She was caught off-guard. This was not the proper time, nor was it Holmes' right to tell her how she should deal with grief, when he needed to do the same.

"You should take your own advice sometime." He caught the hint of annoyance in the edge of her recuperating voice. Should he…..yes. He was away from a doctoring Watson, and with a woman who would surely understand. He paced as he talked in the hopes of avoiding eye contact.

"I'm sure Watson has already filled you in with the overall story, so I will oblige to fill in the details. Years ago I encountered a woman who was quite remarkable. Her wits matched mine in a way I thought impossible, and she was beautiful in the sense that she was confident, had her head on straight. She was grounded, stable-" As an afterthought, "-a fine specimen whose loss I regret entirely." Sim squinted at him, obviously confused by his brief description. Holmes swallowed, went through the speech in his head, found no logical flaws that would baffle any normal person.

"You have told me many things. You are uncomfortable to bring up her name, but when you describe her it is as if you analyze a machine. You cared for her, but not so strongly anymore. Where is the passion you feel?" Holmes was put off by the criticism.

"I assume you meant _felt_. I purged myself of her, say twenty minutes ago…I thought you were there." She frowned at his smart comment. _This_ was why he could never move on. He lied to himself.

"That is not the point. You acknowledge your sorrow, but do not rid yourself of the feelings for someone. It is impossible to ever completely purge yourself of memories, feelings, life-changing instances." She rose from her stool, her opinion rousing her spirit.

His face was set, understanding gone. In a controlled, quiet tone he blared, "But I want to forget."

"That is not the way-"

"Who are you to dictate that?" He walked around the tent, around her, agitated. She was still, trying to control the frustration. "Past hurts are just that: Past. I thought I moved on, but evidently you doubt my abilities."

"No, you doubt yourself." Holmes stopped, turned.

"Fine. Is this what you want to hear? I loved her. I cherished her. I kissed the ground she walked upon. The heavens opened up in song whenever I chanced to see her." Exaggerated hand gestures punctuated his point. "I believe I have stopped _doubting_ my ability to spew cliché poetry." His sarcasm bit deep.

"Condescension does not become you, Holmes."

"Nor you, Miss Simza. But I suppose you know more about it than me, living the life of an anarchist. I hope you realize it is all a game, one which your brother paid with his life, and if you do not get out of this game then your life will be just as wasted as your brother's! If you cannot move past him and your crazy scheme of anarchy, how will you ever live!" That was it. He knew there was no more redemption.

"I believe I've already said this. Take your own advice. And while you're at it, leave. I've heard too much emotion is bad for the health." Holmes exited, with Sim standing in the entrance to her tent, hands on hips, chin up and defiant. Every step implored him to turn around, apologize, spill his waterfall of thoughts…he didn't.

It broke him to go.

* * *

><p>Watson sat heavily in his chair, tired.<p>

_He worsens._

He would have typed more, but knew there was no point. It had been this way since Holmes' return a week ago. A nerve must have been pinched in France, as Simza did not answer his telegrams asking what happened. He was so sure a change would come about.

***sigh* Drama...**


	7. Neutral Ground

**Be warned, this is a chapter of boring transition/ponderings.**

"Mr. Holmes?"

Mrs. Hudson stepped into his room, which was transformed from a rainforest into a meadow. There were no trees (an improvement to say the least), but the wheat and grass and long-stalked flowers were a hassle to walk through. She sighed and made her way Holmes who sat in a chair by the window, mindlessly tossing a ball up and down in his right hand. He stared into space, either purposely ignoring her or absorbed completely in his thoughts.

"Mr. Holmes." The bulldog burst out of the grass to her right, chasing after a butterfly. She did not bother wondering how he'd captured that one. She had habituated herself to Holmes'…extravagant…behavior years ago. A sigh barely escaped her mouth when-

"What should I do, Mrs. Hudson?" He didn't even try making eye contact with her…where was the respectable boy from years past? She sighed pronouncedly again.

"What are you getting at? You know I have no interest in your games or experiments." She shuffled about, collecting moldy biscuits and other tidbits of junk strewn about his work area. The ball stopped. His knuckles were a gradient of pink to white.

"Surely you know of whom I speak." She went through a brief list of people: Watson, Mary, Mycroft…she verily needed to get up to date, but it was not her priority to do so anyhow. "Mr. Holmes, I can assure you, I try not to delve too far into your personal relationships."

Holmes turned in his chair to face her, legs crossed, look of annoyance at her incompetence. "Simza, Mrs. Hudson. Simza."

"The gypsy? Well, what about her? Does she need a place to stay?" She didn't mind taking in "travelers" as much as the other housemaids, feeling sorry for the nomads as opposed to looking upon them with disdain. The poor things had to sleep outside for goodness' sakes.

Holmes' exasperation was beginning to irk her as much as her cluelessness irked him. "Most certainly not; she can take care of herself. And the proper term is Romani. Now tell me, what should I do?" An inkling of understanding crept into the recesses of her mind, and she was reminded of a time when Holmes' father had asked her that same question. How interesting. Perhaps… "What happened, Sherlock?" He started at the use of his first name.

"What the devil is wrong with you? I ask a simple question and already you try to toy with me in my uncustomary emotional state! I swear the female mind is off kilter…but, to answer your question, everything happened. It was odd the way it all played out. You know, I can recall the exact facial muscles she used when telling me to leave, yet it baffles me as to how to fix this…situation." Mrs. Hudson smiled. It was like finishing school all over again, except now she was off advising the opposite sex.

"You think too much with your head. The details don't always matter you know."

"I didn't ask for an aphorism, Mrs. Hudson, I asked for advice." This was so oddly entertaining. Holmes was never one for females, and she often wondered if his relationship with Watson extended beyond their friendly pretenses. She honestly thought Holmes was after the gypsy because he was so distraught over Ms. Adler's death…and the gypsy did not even seem to be interested in Holmes. In her day, courting was made entirely obvious, but the fashions of the time had definitely changed. Whatever happened to tradition…?

"Honestly, sir, social life does not exactly fit your persona. And I think you have done just fine alone. Are you sure this girl is that important, and you are not just upset by the death of Ms. Adler?" Oh fiddlesticks. Now she'd made him angry.

"You forget your place, woman." The calm with which he spoke was frightening; had he been the type to strike women, he would have done so by now. Thank God he had self-control in matters such as this. She scurried out of the room. Maybe he did care for the girl. Strange.

* * *

><p>…<em>I implore you, tell me what happened. His mind is idle, as no new cases have come about, and the banter exchanged between him and I can only do so much. Even Mycroft has suggested he take up boxing on a regular basis to keep his mind active, and as much as I abhor the sport I am almost inclined to agree. Please respond.<em>

_Sincerely,_

_Watson_

Simza finished the letter, took another bite out of her loaf of bread, set the paper down, chewed. This was the fourth time he'd tried to contact her. Just when she thought they were finally out of her life, he sent another reminder. The past was such a bully. She needed the advice of a third party.

Bread in hand, she walked outside and made her way to a smaller tent. She stepped into the smoky haze that was Tamas' tent, inhaled the rich scent she'd known since she was a child.

"Tamas, can I talk to you for a moment?" He was one of the survivors of the mission, had gone to the peace conference, would understand what she had to say. He looked up from beneath heavy brows, smiled, waved her in. She sat on a stool across from him, took a smoke from the pipe he offered.

"Do you remember the Englishman, the one who couldn't ride a horse? Holmes?"

"Yes. The one who refused to ride, he came by here often…but you fought, no? What about him?"

"I don't know what to do anymore. The other one, the one with the moustache, keeps sending me letters, telling me of events happening in England as if I can fix Holmes' problems…but I want nothing to do with any of them." Tamas thought a moment before responding, "Why not ignore the letters?...Unless something prevents you, dove."

"I feel obligated. He tried to help me move past…my brother…but I ended up sending him home in a rage after he told me of his own past grief. I think we were both in the wrong, and I just feel it should not end like this." She took an agitated bite of bread. How she wished it were a pastry.

"Go to England and end it right then." She'd considered this already, but was a bit too proud to let herself go.

"But if he was in really bad shape, he would have come here already, don't you think?" She realized her logic was flawed, but anything not to face what had to be done.

"You're too proud, Sim. Go, settle it, come back a happier woman. Or ignore the dodgy fool who had you in his grasp then left." He grinned bemusedly at the incredulity smeared across her face. She warned, "Don't even start, Tamas."

"What? Everyone knows something was going on. No outsider visits that much without a purpose, and the only times you ever left France were to find your brother and to visit that Englishman. I can't help making assumptions." Sim snorted, shook her head.

"You're incredible, you know that? I seek help and you belittle my stature as a woman."

"You mean I speak the truth." He was serious now. "Take this chance you've been offered. It's a rare thing to be understood so thoroughly by someone other than our kind." He let the weight of his statement sink in. "You're not the only one who can sense his Romanipen."

"You're full of hogwash." She stood and hurried towards the clear light of the outside. Ironically, the clarity of her task was more evident in that fool's tent than in the unclouded outdoors.

* * *

><p>"Aye 'aven't sayn you in awhoile, friend." The ferry captain smiled toothily at Holmes, snatching the cash from his hands. Holmes ignored the comment, stepped hesitantly onto the boat, unsure if this was the best choice. The swaying deck upset his stomach more than it already was, and he decided it would be best to stand up top, where the wind would keep a constant blast of fresh air coming. He climbed the steep steps.<p>

The ferry set off. Holmes leaned on the rail, watched the water of the English Channel churn past; the roiling foam mirrored his own tumble of thoughts. He had no idea how to start, or even give, an apology. It was something he never had to do before, as he was never in the wrong…or at least that was how he'd perceived the world. But now karma was to make him pay. A seagull flew and landed on a part of the rail off to his left.

"Hello bird. I am going to practice on you, so you need to stand very still." He slowly advanced on the avian, coming to a stop in front of it. He cleared his throat, leaned his elbow easily on the rail, clasped his hands together, crossed his legs.

"Ms. Heron, I am terribly sorry for insulting you. Now, that is no way to treat me. Look at me when I'm talking to you." The seagull, oblivious to the not-so-heartfelt apology, flew a ways off. "Right."

He tried again, "My dear, it is with the greatest sadness that I ask you to forgive me for…whatever I did wrong."

"Simza Heron, I hereby apologize to you, and I hope you accept my apology graciously."

"Ms. Simza, whatever I did wrong, I'm sure we've overreacted to the whole thing." Overreacted? Who was he trying to fool? He'd made Rene's death seem meaningless on the chap's birthday, insulted her cause for living, and put to shame a tradition of her people. There was no overreaction; there was rightful punishment for his misdeeds. A throb at his shoulder reminded him of the time spent away from the camp. He hadn't applied the poultice in weeks, and he'd realized his dependency on it after the first two weeks away. It was yet another painful reminder of his loss.

He noted the approaching harbor, the line of people waiting for the ferry so they could go on the return trip to England, the stall where he'd bought the rue. Time to get it over with.

The ferry docked and Holmes prepared to make his way down the steps, swaying a little from the sudden jolt of the ferry when it hit the dock. One small, slippery step at a time…the simile of his life at the mome-

And then Simza appeared before him, not having yet seen him as her head was bent to watch the ever-so-steep staircase. She stopped at his shadow, looked up. Froze. Perplexed. He sucked on the inside of his cheek, not sure what to do.

Both refused to speak, did not want to give in to the other. Sim motioned him to move out of her way. He stepped aside and she brushed past. She wore a colorful skirt, brown boots, multiple items of jewelry, a vest, a light jacket, fitted blouse. Her classic look. And then her distinct, pervasive scent. The ferry began the trip back to England.

* * *

><p>Good. He'd made the concession to come by first. She sensed his unease, hoped hers did not show through. She proceeded to act miffed, conscientiously walked to the opposite side of the rail he leaned on, refused to make eye contact. She hadn't planned on going to England to see him at all. Definitely not. It was to pick up a relative of Tamas'. Perhaps that was believable enough.<p>

She glanced out of the corner of her eye to where he stood. He looked quite good to say the least; Watson had led her to believe he looked like an emaciated corpse or something or other. He wore a vest, collared shirt, dark overcoat, grey slacks, tilted fedora, scarf. How uncharacteristically dapper. Mistake number one: They made eye contact. Damn. He made his way over, ended beside her. He better be the one to talk first.

"You planned to see me in England." And there was the familiar arrogance.

Mistake number two: Curiosity made her speak. "What makes you think that?"

"Bread crumbs. You were eating sometime recently, and as I recall, baked goods are hard to come by, which means you went into town, which also means you stopped by the post office. This in turn means Watson sent you a letter regarding yours truly. And there is also a trace of olive smoke about you, so I assume you met with Tamas to discuss this trip. He is the only man I know in close proximity to you who smokes with an olivewood pipe, and who would be brash enough to convince you to make your way here without you slapping the daylights out of him. And you obviously wouldn't travel to London just to see Watson; more than likely he mentioned in his letter he was off on vacation with Mary in South Africa. In fact, I'm sure he wrote that, as I modified the letter a bit before it was sent off to the post. It's elementary. You've been thinking about this trip for awhile, haven't you?" A small peek into his mind and she was already tired. She faced him, weariness evident.

"Do you honestly expect me to approve your theory? Talk to me like a person, Holmes."

"I'd try, but I would just end up stalling. How about we don't talk and just watch the beautiful English Channel roil by?"

"No. That card has already been expended. Something has been on your mind for a year, and you're too cowardly to talk about it. Now say it, so you can move on, and I can move on, and we can depart from each others' lives happier than when we stepped onto this ferry."

* * *

><p>God, what was he to do? A few sentences in, and she already dominated the playing field. He didn't know how she wormed her way so deep into his nerves. Well then…enough foolishness.<p>

The rolling waves urged him on, and a certain seagull flew off, bored by the lack of excitement.

**That seagull is about to miss quite a show...**

**P.S. I live for reviews. Just saying.**


	8. Another Beginning

**Home-stretch, guys. We are at the close...(I'm not sure if that indicates a smiley or frowny face...)**

She looked up at him expectantly. He forged ahead.

"You know as much as I what afflicts my character, which is to say almost nothing. I have tried to break it apart, and the farthest I've gotten is that you incited a change in me. It did not start with the peace conference, or the bonfire-dance, or a slew of healings in an old boxcar. It started when I caught you reading me as much as I read you. I'd known only two others who did this, and both are now dead; one my enemy and the other…not quite." He paused, took the opportunity to watch her reaction. No facial emotion…but she fiddled with her skirt. So she was nervous to hear what he had to say. Good. He had a bit of power. He lengthened his pause, for dramatic effect now. He could at least have a bit of fun while he bared his soul.

"It was strange at first, observing while being observed myself, but I found it made me better my own character. And then out of necessity we came to trust each other, and you exposed me to a side of life so familiar yet still so strange. Next came my death, followed by my surprise visit and a series of further understandings and analyses. I dare say we are, or were, friends for a time there." Sim raised an eyebrow.

"You're stalling." Yes he was. Perhaps it was best to skip the history tactic.

"Emmm…" He was at a loss for words. Again.

"Holmes, a simple apology would suffice for now." She didn't pity him as much as she tolerated him. But there was amusement in his struggle.

He feigned stupidity. Or maybe he _was_ actually clueless. "Well, now that you've said that, my apology seems insincere and forced. How do you expect me to get around that?"

"Pretend I just walked up the stairs. We haven't talked yet."

"Alright. Sim! How lovely to see you, and under such perfect circumstances!" She sighed, looked to the sky, back at him, hands on hips.

"You make this so difficult. Fine, let me start." She recomposed her features, so strikingly genuine. "Holmes, I am sorry for the unnecessary hurt I may have caused you. It was not my place to criticize your methods of coping with loss. I hope that you may forgive me, and that we can still be friends after this." That was perfect. How was he to compete with that? Her sly smile conveyed a crystal clear message: Even after conceding to go first, she'd won. And she knew it.

"Well, I accept your apology, but on the grounds that you accept mine in return."

"It depends on how convincing you are." Now her arms were crossed, and she waited. She was in for a treat.

"Let's give this a try." He got down on one knee, put on a look of complete innocence, peered up from beneath the rim of his hat. Sim rolled her eyes and smiled, remembered she was supposed to be mad, replaced her smile with stern repression.

"Sim, I have done much wrong. I belittled your traditions, put your brother's death to shame, mocked your purpose in life, all for the smug satisfaction that my way of life was better than yours. I've come to realize over the past few weeks how much I enjoyed your company." He stood, towered over her. "France called to me, begged me to go and set things right…with a friend." He clasped her hands. "But not just a friend, a confidant, an equal if I were to extend my views so far." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please, forgive me." Churning water filled the silence. That should do it. Holmes suddenly stepped away and leaned on the rail, look of smug satisfaction replacing his formerly earnest features.

"Well, how was that then?" Her eyes narrowed. He'd just upset her victory with his own…or was it truly a win for him?

"You're a dog."

"No, that's Watson, the loyal hound. I see myself more as a shrewd fox." Such sadness in her eyes was completely unexpected.

"You're a pity, Holmes." She made her way towards the stairs. He merely watched, wondering at the next best move. It was better this way. It was so uncharacteristic of him to become so attached to another after a case, especially a woman, when all the excitement was over. Yes, there were other girls, but any emotion was a byproduct of the adrenaline of adventure. It never extended to much afterwards. Why did this case have to be such a problem?

The way her clothes hugged her in the wind, her smell carried by said wind back to awaiting nostrils, the jangle of bracelets up her arm. No. This was not right. He took long strides in her direction. She was already partway down the steps.

"Wait." She walked on. He grabbed for her arm. Sim glared up at his unsuspecting face.

"Wait for what? For you to try and make a fool out of me again? For you to make me wonder about you, worry about your health, make me travel to London? For you to supposedly spill your soul, and hurt mine in the process? No, I don't think I will anymore." Her hardened tone solidified the impact, lethalized it. He let her go.

* * *

><p>Simza was so furious at herself. She'd let her guard down for an instant, and lost it all. It was supposed to be smooth, easy, but then again this was Holmes she was talking about. Of course his apology was smooth; he hadn't meant a word of it. She was done.<p>

The ferry eventually docked, and she stood out of sight of all exiting passengers. Hopefully he would get off and she could seethe in peace until she got back to France, to a good bottle of spirits, to wildness, to apathy at all goings-on in this damned gloomy island. She made her way to the ferry's prow once the boat began the return trip. He was so difficult and thick-headed and unwilling to conserve what he called a "friendship." She wondered how Watson tolerated him. Ah well.

A sailor's tune came to mind. It was melancholy, simple, one of those typical melodies about a love lost at sea and whatnot. It fit the overall mood well…not necessarily the lyrics, but the solemnity. She hummed to the brisk air streaming past.

A squat man appeared at her side, finished a stanza, "…there is nothin' tha' cahn console mey bu' moy jolly sailah bold." His baritone filled out the rest of the song nicely. She remembered he was the captain of the ferry. "Y'kno, tha' song 'as no maynin' if ya don' sing the wahds, lass."

"The words don't apply, only the feeling." He nodded, chuckled.

"A' layst somebody ge's i'."

* * *

><p>Holmes refused to leave, watched everyone else get off, saw her make her way to the bow. The least he could do was go down and say something with an inkling of truth…but he supposed it would be no use. No problem. He would go anyways.<p>

The ferry took off again. Holmes was almost sure it was illegal for him to make so many trips under one ticket…but who was keeping track? Certainly not the captain, who winked at him as he walked down the stairs. Odd little charismatic fellow.

It took him a moment to end up behind her, but at least it gave him time to compose his thoughts. She hummed a familiar song. God, why did she always have to sing when emotionally provoked? It was so distracting and mesmerizing. About twenty-four seconds passed before she finished. He took the opportunity to lean close by her ear.

"Don't turn around." She stiffened, obviously repulsed by his presence and close proximity. What, it wasn't like he had the plague. "I want to let you know that before you interrupted my earlier speech and demanded I apologize, I was actually going to say something of meaning. So before you interrupt me again-" She stuck out her heel, ready to whip around. He grabbed her shoulders to stop the pivot. His ears picked up an ever-so-slowly pronounced exhale. Someone had a bit of a temper.

"No no, I said no interruptions. I find it better for me to talk when I don't watch every reaction to my words. As I was saying, before you interrupt me again, I need to get this off my chest." Now that he'd come to it, it was nerve-racking. Maybe now wasn't the best time…man up. Or stall a few seconds longer. "Alright. Good. You're obeying instructions." He took a breath. Jump into the frigid falls of Switzerland, my boy; although he thought this situation was much worse than Switzerland.

"I believe I may actually…value our friendship as something… more…than that…" How dreadful. Right out of one of Mrs. Hudson's romance novels that was becoming so popular. Surely his vocabulary was better than that. He took another go at it.

"What I mean to say is I think we could use…each other…of sorts. Well, not in the crude sense, but in a more…spiritual…? No, not spiritual…" Close it up, leave, do something other than babble garbage. His effectiveness percentage was dropping by the decisecond. She forcibly turned, expecting resistance. There was none, and she stumbled a bit before regaining her ground. There was that oh-so-familiar deadpan. And then she raised one eyebrow, a bit of tenderness to be found in slightly upturned lips.

* * *

><p>She reveled in his discomfort. She wanted to draw out the moment until she spoke as long as possible, to watch him squirm. Then again, he'd finally had the courage to eke out a miniscule fraction of his feelings, and that was enough. He'd kept it bottled up inside for almost a year, she surmised, and it was a feat within itself for him to vocalize something. Still trying to process the information, no matter how almost predictable, was something more challenging. She saw the port in France fast approach. Action had to be taken before they docked. How should she reply to all that mess…?<p>

She reached out with her right hand, laid it to rest on his shoulder, let her eyes wander up his face, keeping eye contact. "Thank you, friend." He was still as a statue, his expression just as stoic. She stayed this way a few seconds longer, watched the coastline enlarge through her periphery. And then at the opportune moment, she leaned close, put her left hand on his other shoulder, felt the air whip past her face as Holmes inhaled sharply, went up on her tiptoes…

She grabbed his hat, donned it, and promptly walked past him to the other side of the boat just as the ferry docked. She leapt off lightly onto French ground, her battlefield. Holmes stood stock still for a moment, mildly surprised, then amused. He eventually strode off the ferry, caught up with her.

"So I take it you understood my gibberish." She smirked, looked up at the man walking beside her.

"Yes."

"Dandy."

* * *

><p>An exceptionally large fire was lit in celebration of the return of a familiar visitor. A sprightly whirlwind of sound sprung from the strings of the fiddle, and so the dance began. But while everyone moved, no sign of the visitor was evident. They all assumed he'd left, just like the other times. No matter. Their merriment failed to cease, with or without him dancing along.<p>

But inside a particular tent, there sat two friends. They ate some baked goods from the neighboring town, conversation commencing as the atmosphere became warm with fulfillment.

The visitor asked the native to dance, not one of wild rapture but of genteel contentment. She accepted. An overdone curtsy was followed by a histrionic bow, and then all silliness was put aside.

They waltzed in the cramped space. To avoid hitting furniture and other objects, he pulled her closer. Formal pretenses faded away. The tempo of their imaginary orchestra slowed. A smaller area of ground was covered by the quiet pair. Because she was exhausted from multiple ferry rides and a long day of walking about, she leaned her head on his chest. Because he was cold, his arms found their way around her frame.

And because there was nothing much else left to do…

Midnight came and went, the moon the only witness to changes of the spirit.

****And the rest is left to the imagination :) Or is it? To see a Holmes/Simza kiss that was removed from the movie, watch the original trailer and pause at 1:18...hopefully it satisfies a smidge, at least until the DVD comes out with deleted scenes. Anyways, it was lovely writing this and I hope you all enjoyed it as much as me. Reviews are encouraged!****


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